Home for the holidays

by Richard Jasper

Chris Kirkpatrick, an 18-year-old high school Big Man on Campus, is eager to see his slightly older brother Roger back “home for the holidays” after his first semester as a freshman at State. Boy, is he in for a surprise!

“Looking fine, Stud!”

Chris Kirkpatrick addressed his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The 18-year-old high school senior was 6 feet and 220 pounds of solid football player muscle: Broad shoulders, thick, well-defined (and, much to his chagrin, completely smooth) chest, 19-inch arms, narrow waist with six-pack abs, powerful legs, and a sexy-hard-as-steel butt.

“And let’s not forget Mr. Happy,” giving his hard-as-steel nine-incher a playful slap.

Ordinarily Chris wouldn’t have had the luxury of spending so much time in front of the bathroom mirror, inasmuch as he shared the bathroom and with his one-year-older brother, Roger, whose bedroom also adjoined the space.

But nerdy, brainy, weedy non-jock Roger had started his freshman year at State in mid-August and hadn’t been home in the four months since then, much to their parents chagrin. All they got out of him was a brief once-a-week phone call and Chris didn’t get that much, nothing other than an occasional text:

Classes are okay

Dorm is okay

Food is okay

Joined the gym

That last one threw Chris for a loop. Never in his life had Roger shown the least bit of interest in physical exercise, preferring to spend all his time with his nose in a book and occasionally meeting up with nerdy pals to do nerdy things like play chess.

“I mean, c’mon,” Chris thought. “Couldn’t they at least play something cool? Even Dungeons & Dragons is cooler than chess!”

For all their differences, Chris actually appreciated his older brother. He was whip-smart, for one thing, and always willing to help out on Chris’s homework, albeit in a somewhat off-handed fashion, usually pointing his younger brother in the right direction. Plus he had a wickedly dry sense of humor and a keen sense of the foibles of others, which he was always willing to share while scrupulously refraining from directing his famous barbs at Chris.

“Jeez,” Chris thought as he brushed his teeth. “I guess I actually miss him. Whodathunkit?”

He turned out the bathroom light, crawled under the covers, performed his nightly whack-off ritual, and promptly fell into a deep slumber.

The usual breakfast clatter woke Chris from his deep Holiday slumber. There was always something particularly luxurious about sleeping in on a weekday during the Holiday break. A loud thump from the bathroom completed the process.

“Roger’s home,” he thought, leaping out of bed and pulling on his jammy bottoms, as usual viscerally aware of the way they hugged his thick quads and showed off his ripped 28-inch waist and his big floppy package. He ripped open the bathroom door and…

“Holy Fuck,” Chris exclaimed. “Who the hell are you?!”

There was a giant of a man standing in front of Roger’s sink. Not tall giant but huge giant! Bodybuilder huge, with shoulders that had to be a yard wide, with a beer keg neck, mountainous traps, and enormous lats tapering down to a narrow waist before exploding into boulder-sized (and boulder-hard) glutes.

“Chris!” the giant exclaimed, whipping around and gathering the much smaller man into his humongous arms. Chris had a quick view of a well-trimmed dark-brown beard, a gigantic fur-covered chest, and a thick but incredibly ripped midsection before his face was buried in the beast’s dense forest of chest hair. The cleavage had to be eight inches deep.

Chris put his big meaty hands on the beast’s shoulders and pushed but it was like trying to move their dad’s Buick SUV—with the parking brake on!

“Who the fuck are you, man? Put me down,” Chris growled into the chest hair.

The big guy let go, then boomed with laughter.

“Jeez, dude, don’t you recognize your own brother?!”

His feet back on the floor, Chris looked straight into the eyes of the huge mo’fo who’d just been manhandling him.

“Roger!” he exclaimed.

Somehow Roger’s eyes, eyebrows, nose, lips, and dimples, facial features he knew as well as his own, had become attached to this mountain of a man. The beard, in fact, actually magnified Roger’s Rogerness. Only this was a handsome, confident, cheerful, extremely masculine Roger, so much so that…

Down, Mr. Happy, DOWN! What the fuck are you thinking?

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Roger said, noticing his brother’s blush—and his predicament. “Happens all the time. Doesn’t seem to matter whether the guy’s straight or gay and God knows you couldn’t be gay if your life depended on it.”

The deep, resonant bass was not the uneven baritone-tenor with which Roger had left home four months earlier but the sentence structure and the intonation were spot on.

“What what what what what…?”

Chris realized he was sounding like a broken record but he couldn’t help it.

“I got big,” Roger replied, enthusiastically. “You always said I ought to hit the gym and I did and, jeez, did it work!”

With that Roger lifted his right arm and flexed. The upper arm was impossibly huge. It had to be bigger than Chris’s waist! For that matter, Roger’s forearm couldn’t have been much smaller than Chris’s thigh!

“But how…?” Chris began.

“How big am I?” Roger asked, misunderstanding Chris’s question. He rattled off the number.

Six feet tall. “I grew two inches, so I guess we’re the same height now, huh?”

400 pounds. “Plus or minus 5 pounds, depending on the time of day.”

80-inch chest.

40-inch waist. “Huge, I know, but compared to my chest, right?”

44-inch quads. “Bigger than my waist, isn’t that cool?”

He lifted his voluminous pant legs to show off his calves. “32 inches, so not quite as big as…”

He flexed the other behemoth arm. 34-inch biceps. “34 inches, but that’s only when fully pumped, of course, but even cold and unflexed they’re over 30 inches.”

Then he pointed to his forearms.

“26 inch forearms.”

Chris felt faint. His weedy, nerdy, never-been-to-the-gym brother was now odds on one of the world’s largest, most muscular men! Unlike many of his teammates, Chris actually appreciated bodybuilding and had thought that someday, once his football career was over (and, you never knew, accidents happened) he’d like to take it up. So Chris new the big names of the sport, Phil Heath and Big Rami and Martin Kjellstrom and all the others, as well the powerlifters like Eddie Hall and the strongmen like Hapthor Bjornnson. He had always been impressed by their power and their sheer mass.

But the man before him dwarfed all but the biggest of them and compared to the biggest he was vastly more muscular and defined. This creature could walk onto the Mr. Olympia stage and blow away anyone standing there.

“But how…?”

Roger shook his head.

“I don’t rightly know, to tell you the truth. I must have some weird-ass genetics, right?”

Chris laughed out loud.

“Dude,” he said. “You’ve got the same genetics as me!”

Roger grinned.

“And you don’t want to look like this?”

Mr. Happy jerked to full attention, much to Chris’s dismay. Then he looked down.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Roger where did that come from?” The brothers had long ago determined that their wanking rods obviously came from the same factory. Chris’s was maybe a quarter-inch longer, Roger’s was maybe half-inch bigger around. But the thing attached to Roger’s mid-section was a freaking anaconda!

“It grew, too,” Roger said, “although I can’t really figure out why it would. But it did. I guess my body decided that 400 pounds of muscle needed a 13-inch dick to go along with it!”

Chris thought dampening thoughts…

Icebergs…

Glaciers…

Mountain passes…

“Okay, but seriously, Roger,” he said. “You gotta tell me how you did it.”

Roger shook his head.

“It’s really simple,” he said. “I lifted…a lot! And I ate…a lot!” He spent the next ten minutes relaying the details. Finding the gym, finding out that he seemed to have an endless capacity to lift. Finding out, moreover, that he seemed to have an endless capacity to eat. “Those cafeteria ladies loved me,” Roger said, scratching the furry canyon beneath his pecs with a hand the size of a hubcap. “I kept coming back for more, which I guess most people don’t do, it’s not exactly inspired cuisine. But filling, really filling, and they just loved it. Plus you know how I like to flirt with the old ladies.”

Chris rolled his eyes. He’d been embarrassed by Roger’s flirting with the old bags in the lunch line since they were in 1st grade!

“The cafeteria manager tried to get me banned,” he continued. “But the cafeteria ladies told him to go stuff it. The plan is ‘all you can eat,’ they told him, not ‘eat only this amount. It took me a while to notice, you know? I mean I knew I was getting stronger and stronger. When I first went to the gym, I could only bench 200 pounds and…”

Whoa, Chris thought. “Waitamminit,” he said. “You’re telling me you benched 200 pounds on your first go? How much did you weigh?” Roger had a puzzled look. “That was the first day, so 160 pounds, of course. I don’t know why everyone seemed so surprised.” Chris blinked. He certainly hadn’t benched one and a quarter times his bodyweight his first time in the gym, nor had most of his friends—and they were the jocks!

“But, like I said, I kept getting stronger and stronger. The next week it was 300 pounds, the week after that it was 400 pounds, and so forth. By the end of the month it was 600 pounds.” Chris’s jaw dropped. 600 pounds was half-again what he could bench and his 400-pound bench was the second best in the school. “And, you know, I always like to wear baggy clothes but by the third week they were getting tight—really tight,” Roger said, looking a tad embarrassed. “So tight I busted right out of them on my way to the gym one day!”

Chris chortled.

“Yeah, it was a real laugh riot, trotting across campus with the sleeves blown out of my shirt and the seat ripped out of my pants and seams on my pant legs torn open.”

Roger flexed his quads, each head of the giant mass clearly defined through the curly brown hair that had started growing in when Roger was only 12. He’d always been a furry fucker!

“So then I decided, finally, to hop on the scale,” he said. “And imagine my surprise—220 pounds! I’d gained 60 pounds in one month! I was so astounded I told the guy who managed the weight-room floor and he insisted on taking my other measurements. Turned out, among other things, I’d grown half an inch taller. Plus my chest was 50 inches, arms 19 inches, waist 28 inches, quads 26 inches, and so forth.”

Exactly the same size I am, Chris thought, astounded.

Roger blushed, then added. “He measured my dick, too, and it was 10 inches. That’s when I knew something weird was going on…but who was I to complain?”

Chris gaped. “He measured your dick?!”

Roger chuckled. “Well, yeah, he was my first boyfriend. And, c’mon, don’t give me that look, you’ve known all along I was gay!” Roger reach over with his big mitt and gently lifted Chris’s chin so that his mouth snapped shut with a click.

“Well, yeah, duh,” Chris said. “It just never occurred to me that you were ever going to get around to doing anything about it! Also: First boyfriend?”

Roger snorted.

“Well, you oughta know how it works, Mr. Studly Younger Brother! Big muscles and big dick? After all these years watching the Chick Magnet at work I wasn’t terribly surprised to find out that I was a Dick Magnet. I figure I’ll settle down at some point but why not sew some wild oats?”

Chris felt dizzy. His nerdy older brother, who’d never had a date in his life, had turned into some Gay Musclegod Sex Stud!

“And it just got better, you know?” Another month, another 60 pounds of muscle, another 100 pounds a week on his bench, another inch on his dick. “By Halloween I was up to 300 pounds and benching 1200,” Roger pointed out. “I went to half a dozen parties as the Incredible Hulk, with these big clodhopper boots, a black fright wig, and a pair of painted-on purple compression shorts that didn’t hide the fact that my kielbasa was now over eight inches soft. It was the first time I fucked 10 guys in one night.” Roger snorted. “It was the last time, too,” he noted. “After that guys started complaining about my dick. I mean, can you imagine?”

Chris slowly shook his head but it wasn’t because he couldn’t imagine the complaints. He’d had his share of complaints from girls about his being “too big down there” and he wasn’t trying to stick it up someone’s tight ass. His sphincter clinched just thinking about it.

“But I never really slowed down,” Roger continued. “By Thanksgiving I was 350 and benching something like 1700 pounds. And now…”

Chris was trying to wrap his head around it. In just four months 19-year-old Roger, who had been 5’10 since his 15th birthday, had grown 2 inches taller and somehow, magically it seemed, added 4 inches to his dick, and…”Jesus Christ on a Crutch,” Chris exclaimed, after doing some mental math. “You’re two and a half times the size you were four months ago!”

Roger just grinned, then crabbed into a most muscular pose that would annihilate any bodybuilder stupid enough to step onto a stage with him. “And as of this weekend I’m now benching exactly 2000 pounds,” he said. “Five times my weight!” Chris felt like he was going to pass out. Roger was five times stronger than he was and probably twice as strong as the next strongest man on Earth.

“Wanna see something fun?”

Before Chris could reply Roger wrapped one of his paws around both of Chris’s wrists and began methodically pumping him up and down.

“With a barbell I can curl 800 pounds,” he said, nonchalantly. “But one-armed is a bit trickier because the weight tends to get in the way of my range of motion. Plus, finding 350-pound dumbbells is a pain in the ass.”

Chris suddenly realized that Mr. Happy was really happy. “Roger, c’mon,” he said, weakly. “You gotta put me down. I can’t take it!” Roger set his now much smaller-brother down again.

“It’s like I said, bro, it happens all the time. I’ll be in the gym curling 600-700 pounds for reps—lots of reps—and the football players, most of whom are straight, including some of the ones I’ve fucked, will start tenting. After I benched 1000 pounds the first time they would come over to the regular gym to watch me workout but I guess it was too embarrassing for them because not long afterwards the Athletics Director sent me a letter saying I’d outgrown the regular gym and I needed to workout at the Athletics Department gym. Away from prying eyes and all that, I guess.”

Roger’s python was now at full-mast.

“I think it’s time I did some posing, don’t you? So that you’ll have the full effect?” With that, he began a classic routine, the kind Arnold or Dorian would have done, only he was twice Arnold’s size and half again as big as Dorian at his biggest. “Don’t be surprised if I cum, okay? I wasn’t really trying but somehow I’ve trained my dick so that it gets into rhythm with my posing.”

It was like watching a, a, a…well, fuck, Chris didn’t know what it was like! He just knew he was hard as a rock and likely to cum at any moment!

“It’s okay if you cum, man,” Roger reassured him. “I very rarely get through a workout session without causing 2-3 of the football players, usually the biggest ones, to spurt.”

It was hypnotic. Every moment, every subtle movement, Roger’s massive muscles rippled and reconfigured themselves.

“And I used to think they were big,” Roger continued. “Now I outweigh Zeke Pendleton…” Chris knew Pendleton at 6’7 and 350 pounds was the biggest man on the team “…by 50 pounds and he’s 7 inches taller than I am.” Roger turned and slowly, slowly unfurled the world’s most mind-blowing lat spread. “Check it out, bro,” Roger said. “You ever seen anything like that?”

Chris lost control. He spurted all over his brother’s Herculean back, his cum splatting in great huge wads—it was like paint balls hitting a battleship.

“Oh, yeah, little brother,” Roger said, turning. “Gimme that spunk and I’ll give you some of mine!”

With that, his giant cannon exploded, volleying cum over Chris’s shoulder and hitting the mirror on his side of the bathroom. It went on for a long time. Chris, weak in the knees and feeling alternately exalted and like he might throw up, was incapable of moving. When he was done, Roger draped a towel across his mighty prong, then gave his enormous bicep a quick flex…and a kiss! It was the most erotic thing Chris had ever seen.

“Now that was some motherfucking posing,” Roger said. “And, no, don’t worry about it, you’re not gay. It’s the power trip, that’s all.” He pointed to the shower. “Time we got you cleaned up.”

Chris headed to the shower, pausing to look at his magnificent brother.

“And then what?”

Roger slapped his brother on his ass. “We go downstairs and eat Mom’s pancakes.” Roger had told her to make enough for 20 people. Champ that she was, their mom was nothing if not flexible. Mrs. Kirkpatrick hadn’t even blinked.

“Time to make you grow!”

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